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October 01, 2009

When we arrived in NYC in 1987 to pursue our ill-advised dream of becoming a renowned classical actor, we experienced a period of extreme poverty (who saw THAT coming??). We were reduced to jumping turnstiles, and our daily sustenance consisted of a banana in the morning and either a slice of pizza or a box of kraft macaroni and cheese in the evening. One afternoon we were loitering in Tantalus Deli on East 55th, trying to decide what delectable morsel to purchase with our last remaining 68 cents. Suddenly, we spied a hundred dollar bill on the floor in the beer aisle. That night we had the most delicious pastrami on rye ever.

Likewise, having suckled at the bitter teat of Unemployment Insurance for a year, the milk recently ran dry. The very day the payments ceased, we found ourselves hired by a prominent financial news agency, and now hold full press credentials ("smell YOU Nancy Drew!" we hear you utter under your putrid mentos-and-decaf breath).

But listen, bitches; Mamma will provide. In the darkest moment, something in the universe clicks; the planets align. We blink, and suddenly we're enjoying a delicious pastrami on rye. Burp!

Now that we're once again a respectable (shut up) working member of society, we've found little time to spare. And this, our baby, has suffered. Yet COWA remains our secret crush. Posts will come with more frequency in the future, and we shall ruthlessly whup the asses of those who deserve it until our computer crashes, our hands cramp, or Yahweh yanks us home to Jesus whilst smiting the internet because of Ashton Kucher's sophomoric twittering. We're back.

With that in mind, there have been numerous items of late with blatant "whup my ass" signs taped to their fannies. We've been chomping at the bit to open a can. What follows is the Reader's Digest version of what we've been simply DYING to say:

Dear Mackenzie Phillips:

When obnoxious divorcee Anne Romano relocated her two girls (Valerie Bertinelli—future hair band frau, current fat person—and thou) to the urban shangri-la of Indianapolis, who expected her oldest daughter to be arrested at airports with a kilo of horse wedged up her oopsie hole? Worse still, Schneider hardly foresaw the day when Julie Romano would hit the talk show circuit yammering endlessly about her icky 10-year affair with her father. I'll say it to your face Mack. It's tacky.

What gal hasn't accidentally done the the hippity-dippity with pops for ten years, ultimately aborting his misbegotten inbred womb-booger because hubby wouldn't approve? We're so glad you've decided to launch your extra-classy "I boned pops and all I got was an aborted fetus and a book deal" publicity tour and press junket. We knew you were bad news when you ruined Harrison Ford's evening in "American Graffiti." Do us a favor, take a job as a second shift Stuckey's hostess and slither away into obscurity. Thanks.

Our first impulse is to beg you to run a spell-check on your unfortunate first name.

Beyond that, as we know, a woman just isn't a woman unless a fetus is kicking her abdomen from within her fruitful womb. So when your ample tummy rudely ejected your woebegone uterus spew, you sensibly decided not to tell anyone. Instead, you faked the remainder of your pregnancy and kidnapped a neighbor's infant. Then, to remake the poor thing in your ghastly image, you shaved its noggin and tarted it up under layers of Mary Kay cosmetics. Upon reconsidering the wisdom of those actions, you deposited the wailing diaper-filler in a convenient dumpster, where it was later found by the authorities gurgling under half-eaten chalupas and curbed dog poop.

We see absolutely nothing wrong with your actions. What does a modern gal want with someone else's tarted up baby? To hell with it. Let's go shopping!

xoxWAM

P.S. To Prisscilla's miscarried fetus: we congratulate you on your foresight with respect to your erstwhile mother-to-be's parenting skills. Better luck next time.

Okay, so being Mayor of East Cleveland is pretty much like being crowned King of poop. Sure, it's nice to be King of anything, but East Cleveland? What's second prize?

Howev, if one is running for public office, it's a good idea not to prance about in women's lingerie, snapping nasty pics of ourselves looking like a chorus girl in the all-crack-whore production of Chicago (a production we'd quite enjoy, come to think of it).

Bitch, it's like this; one does not pose for pictures in corsets and panty hose like an unholy hybrid of Betty Page and Flip Wilson if one yearns for a gig in the political sphere. For not only are you a freakin mess (we beg you to investigate proper skin care, pubic mowing, lipo, hot oil treatments and drastic rhinoplasty), you are now known as Ms. Mayor Nasty Pants. Can you really govern dazzling East Cleveland when everyone and their Facebook friends know you're wearing Victoria's Secret's entire "tranny-mess" line underneath your JC Penney double breasted seersucker? We suggest a new career. Perhaps you could give hand-jobs at truck stops or join the gals on The View, or something.

First, let us dance on the precipice of political incorrectness by saying that the black bitches have ALL the hair. We have seen weaves that gave us vertigo and/or motion sickness. We have seen bitches who are so braided and bobby-pinned their architecturally unstable hair looks like exploding turkeys emerging from chocolate wedding cakes.

So we quite enjoyed the story about how you grabbed hold of a bitch's weave and held it for ransom whilst wielding scissors. And now you find yourself charged with aggravated assault and false imprisonment.

Chanda. Chanda-Chanda-Chanda. As anyone from Tootie on "Facts of Life" to Beyonce (and her team of nervous wig-wranglers) will attest, one simply does not take a bitch's weave hostage and expect to live to see Tyler Perry's next cinematic masterpiece. Especially considering the fact that, judging by your photo, weaves have waged the cruelest war on thou; for you look like the second-string Big-Mac-assembler at the Tuscaloosa McDonald's.

Perhaps you intended to purloin gal's locks, to pirate her braids in order to supplant your woefully inadequate hairdo.

September 20, 2009

Currently, Disney is gnawing on Michael Jackson's frail, freshly deceased alien carcass by reviving Captain Eo, an incoherent 17-minute film by Francis Ford Coppola. It's about an effeminate Diana Ross impersonator who zig-zags across the galaxy shooting rainbows from his gloves, turning evil robots into be-mulleted Solid Gold dancers and zapping Coppola's career into oblivion.

Disney. Disney-Disney-Disney. We still believe our proposed "Lion King vs. Mary Poppins: A Spoonful o' Whup-Ass" is nothing short of inspired, but it's official. The mouse is out of ideas.

As if to prove our point, they've dusted off our favorite quartet of campy old bitches so they can have another go at it.

No, not the Beatles. The friggin Golden Girls. But since Sofia Petrillo and Dorothy Zbornak are currently bickering over bingo in the Hades branch of Shady Pines, the Disney folks have decided to put a new twist on it. The new Golden Girls will be in Spanish and set in Caracas.

Okay, okay. We admit it. That sounds totally hilarious. And although our Spanish is sketchy (we know how to curse and enquire as to the whereabouts of the nearest bathroom and/or library), we cannot wait to enjoy the exploits of Dorotea, Sofia, Roja y Blanca en español.

We already see endless plot opportunities. Here's a few off the top of our head:

Roja Nyland gets duped into acting as a mule for a drug militia and swallows eighty condoms stuffed with crank. Later that evening, whilst attending a cock-fight at the senior center, the condoms burst in her belly and Roja (in a narcotic frenzy), throws herself into the ring and bites off the head of every last chicken. The girls, having wagered heavily on Roja, split their winnings and buy matching pastel sombreros.

Dorotea starts dating Hugo Chavez. While discussing whether she should accept his invitation to go on a romantic cruise across Lake Titicaca, Roja tells one of her famous Santo Olafo stories, this one about how they used to stuff piñatas with herring. This prompts Blanca to bust out the bizcocho. Later, on the cruise, Chavez asks Dorotea to dress up like Fernando Lamas and strap on a dildo. Horrified, she dives overboard, swims ashore and encounters a tribe of Yanomamos who mistake her for a goddess. She directs them to overthrow the government, which ends in disaster when the natives are mistakenly machine gunned by Sofia, who, unbeknownst to the others, had fled to San Felipe to join the Socialist Party's citizen patrol.

Whilst getting gang-banged by a mariachi band on La Isla Margarita, Blanca recognizes the trumpet player as her daughter Yolanda, with whom she'd been estranged since she underwent gender reassignment surgery and changed her name to Pepe. Dorotea, meanwhile, has learned that an orderly at Los Pinos Sombreados nursing home has turned Sofia over to the authorities after she was caught with a kilo of blow in her purse. To raise money for Sofia's bail, Dorotea, Roja, Blanca, (and her long lost trumpet-playing daughter son Pepe) stage a charity talent show. The showstopper: a tap-dance number to La Bamba. Guest star: Charo as Sofia's predatorial lesbian cell-mate.

We smell a hit.

Adios,WAM

Hugo Chavez sez: "Quiero mi suscripción to this blog's feed more than 'Las Ancianas de Oro'"

August 06, 2009

Sometimes, as in the case of LA Times sports writer Mike Penner, a dude decides to send back his plate of bratwurst in exchange for the clam dish. Or in the case of Chastity Chaz Bono, a gal realizes she's not in the mood for meat pie, and opts instead for the kielbasa. In either case, it requires a brass set of cojones to willingly have one's shame hose hacked off and replaced with a batcave (or vice versa). It's not like having one's cavity filled. This is not an out-patient procedure. As we've mentioned previously, unless you're Mr. Potato-head, genitalia are not easily interchangeable.

And of course, transgendered folks make the Jesus crowd all nervous. Any man in a dress (who isn't Milton Berle or Flip Wilson) makes them all fidgety. The sight of Ru Paul makes them want to vacuum their Volvos. If a man isn't the pope, he simply cannot flounce about in a gown. And of course, there's a blossoming fear that under Obama's health plan everyone will be forced to have sex changes. It's ironic that the uberconservative Iranian theocracy will execute a dude for fagnicity, but accepts gender identity displacement as a valid medical condition; if you chop it off and wear a hijab, they won't give you a rope necktie. But that's neither here nor there. Let's get into the meat of things, shall we?

Meet Stu Rasmussen. Girlfriend has recently undergone sexual reassignment AND been elected mayor of Silverton Oregon (we admire multi-taskers). Since being freshly equipped with a set of boobalicious ta-tas and corresponding oopsie hole, Lady Stu has been displaying the merchandise; she showed up for a speaking engagement at a children's charity clad in a mini skirt over a backless one-piece bathing suit and open-toed "f*ck me" pumps. This prompted yelly vibrator hobbyist Bill O'Reilly to yell about how trannies are harming the kiddies. But f*ck O'Reilly. He's retarded and yelly.

We'd like to address Ms. Stu:

Dear Mayor Rasmussen,

First, get a load of you. How many years have you longed to shake your maracas and mince about like Mitzy Gaynor? It must be terribly liberating. So you go, girl.

What's more, we believe our country needs more transgendered mayors. For instance, if Lady Bunny was Mayor of New York, everything would instantly be much more entertaining (we imagine Bunny at a press conference spontaneously lip-syncing "Come on-a My House"). But more to the point, city hall would be whipped into shape faster than you can say "sashay shantay." One does not irk a queen and live to see tomorrow. The only thing scarier than an angry transsexual is a premenstrual minotaur.

But we have some issues. First, you've endured the discomfort of having your pants worm refashioned into a hoo-hoo. You've had more estrogen jabs than all of the Golden Girls put together. Why then are you still named Stu? To our mind, you look like a Babette or a Prudence. That settles it; hereinafter you shall be Babette.

See, Babs, it's like this. We really have no qualm with an ex dude tarting himself up like Lady GaGa and slinking into a Children's Charity fund raiser. Kids will accept you; they've been acquainted with gender illusionists since Tinky Winky pranced onto the scene like Lola Falana at a Key West gay bar, since Lady Elaine vamped about on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. And it's not that we object to the fact that you're uglier than a pole cat on a mud fence. Just because you couldn't win the Miss Landmine Pageant even if the judges were blind doesn't mean you're incapable of holding office. Heck, Golda Meir looked as if she'd been hit in the face with a shovel more than once and that broad was serious.

No, our main beef is taste, or your tragic lack thereof. If Mayor Bloomberg marched in the Saint Patty's parade clad in fuscia spandex biker shorts and pasties, it would be inappropriate (though certainly amusing). Likewise, if Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa attended a ribbon-cutting ceremony dressed as Charo, eyebrows would raise. Babette, a bitch cannot expect to dress up like disco gidget at public appearances AND retain the dignity of elected office. You are hereby sentenced to open a charge account at Dress Barn. Pick out a lovely pants suit or three. Some tasteful separates. Invest in some closed-toe flats, stat! (and, not for nuthin, maybe some moisturizer)

August 03, 2009

Aloha, mahus. "Mahu" is Hawaiianese for "faggotfairyboypoofterass-banditsphincter-diving-pole-smokerpansy homo." A few days ago, after those mahus at Notre Dame beat my team, the Hawaiian Warriors — WOOOO!!! — I did my hilarious impersonation of the Notre Dame clappy hoppy fairy jig, and unfortunately characterized it as a "faggot dance." Since then I've been suspended without pay, my million dollar salary was docked and I even had to apologize TWICE. The second time I even started bawlin' like a faggot. Wait, strike that. I didn't say it. Don't write that, cool? And now, I've promised to be more faggy sensitive and do some faggotyDiversity PSAs. So I thought I'd jot down some ideas:

PSA #1: Aloha, this is Coach Greg McMackin. Football is a manly sport. It's a game where strapping young specimens put on spandex pants and bend over and jump all over each other and writhe about in the mud and slap each other's butts and hit the showers. Sometimes in the locker room, my players like to snap their teammate's fannies with towels and call each other "faggots" and giggle. But golly, these boys love each other. They hold hands and skip and watch Ugly Betty. Say for instance they're showering together and someone initiates a spirited ball-fondling grab-ass game of leapfrog and they laugh and called each other faggots? And what if one of them actually happened to BE a faggot? They might go home and cry themselves to sleep like a faggot. Shoot, if my boys knew they might be hurting each other's feelings like that, they'd totally lose their boners. Words can hurt.

PSA #2: Aloha, this is Coach Greg McMackin. A while back I called those pasty-faced Irish Cathy-licks retards at Notre Dame a bunch of faggots. Irish Cathy-licks are a proud people. They believe in the Virgin Mary and leprechauns, and they drink themselves into nightly stupors before beating their wives and getting them pregnant. They have small penises and crooked teeth (unlike Hawaiians, who have small teeth and crooked penises), they dance jigs and eat potatoes and they all smell like cabbage mixed with whiskey and vomit. But they certainly are not faggots and I regret disparaging such a proud, dignified people with such an insulting remark. Because God wouldn't make a man Irish AND a faggot. That would just be too cruel. Not that there's anything wrong being with an Irish faggot. Ask Bono. Words can hurt.

PSA #3: Aloha, this is Coach Greg McMackin. And I love the homos. They like to shop and decorate and choreograph productions of Mame. And they love me, too. Why just the other day I posted a picture of my fist on Craigslist and I got simply oodles of responses from nice young "str8-acting but curious" types. Many of them made generous and titillating (though rather unhygienic) suggestions regarding where I might hide my fist should the need arise. And I learned that most don't enjoy being called faggots (except for that plumber from Maui who wears dresses and likes to wrestle). Why? Because words, like fists, can hurt. And they can also fit into the strangest places.

So them's all my ideas for the PSAs. If you have any ideas of your own, I'm all ears. In the meantime, I apologize again, and I hope you all have a faggoty lovely day.

Coach McMackin sez: "Ever since I subscribed to this blog's feed, the whole world seems a little faggier better."

July 23, 2009

Last week, we warmed your black souls with the charming tale of one Dorothy Richardson, the 75-year-old granny who flattened Bambi's skull with a shovel for sitting amongst her petunias. It cannot be denied; one does not f*ck with an old woman's garden. It follows, then, that should one f*ck with the garden of two middle-aged homosexuals, you are taking your life in your hands. Ask Tony Dyson of Perthshire, England.

Tony Dyson, married and presumably heterosexual, also gardens and owns a kitty cat (um...heads up, Mrs. Dyson). Said kitty cat has the tiresome habit of sneaking into the neighbouring garden and clawing up pansies and snapdragons. Unfortch, the neighbouring garden in question belongs to Bill Young and David Dickman, a devoted fifty-ish gay couple who are apparently a tad sensitive about their florals.

On a glorious spring day, David Dickman-Young sashayed outdoors to enjoy the impeccable beauty of his backyard Shangri-la. At the horrific sight of broken stems and scattered petals (carnage wrought by a certain dreadful kitty cat), he shrieked and dropped his teacup.

In a blind rage, David Dickman-Young lept through a gap in the box hedge to confront his neighbour, Mr. Tony Dyson. Bill Young-Dickman soon followed.

"I'll get you, you nasty f*ck!" screamed David Dickman-Young, as he pounced on the terrified Mr. Dyson, taking him down amongst his zinnias.

Bill Young-Dickman enthusiastically joined the melee, inexplicably biting Mr. Dyson's head (we've witnessed many brawls; NEVER, outside of a zombie flick, have we seen anyone gnaw on their opponent's head).

David Dickman-Young, following the example set by Rosalind Russell in "The Women," attempted to claw Mr. Dyson's eyeballs from his noggin.

Escalating their assault on Mr. Dyson's skull, the Dickman-Youngs commence conking the imperiled man about the head with rocks and stones.

Mr. Dyson's frightened wife Nessa emerged from the house and swatted the Dickman-Youngs away with a broom before dragging her bloodied spouse indoors.

Bill Young-Dickman has been fined £800, while David Dickman-Young has been ordered to perform 140 hours of community service. Tony Dyson, meanwhile, suffered numerous cuts and bruises and had to undergo injections for Tetanus and Hepatitis.

We applaud the Young-Dickmans for their admirable restraint whilst defending their posies and forget-me-nots. What's more, although we love all furry creatures, other people's kitty cats are destructive bores. Keep your mangy moggy inside, Mr. Dyson.

Ultimately, we've learned a valuable lesson. F*cking with a gay couple's garden is about as smart as teasing a minotaur or going for a menstrual swim with a great white. You, Mr. Dyson, are lucky to be alive.

xoxWAM

The Dickman-Youngs say: "subscribe to this blog's feed or the kitty cat gets it."

July 21, 2009

Listen, whatya say we throw on our caftans, make a bee-line for the beach-side tiki bar and order a mai-tai or seven in a dirty coconut? Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? We KNOW!

So here's the shizzle-dizzle. We were in high school when "Boy" was released. It fit our surly 16-year-old, angst-ridden aesthetics to a tee. We saw U2 play Red Rocks, one of the best concerts ever. When you warned us that should we decide to "walk-away-walk-away," you'd most likely "follow," we were okay with it. And although there's something faintly insufferable about anyone who'd rename themselves "good voice" in Latin, we nevertheless tolerate your pretentious op-eds in the NY Times in which you remind us you're a soulful genius who cares about Africa and stuff.

But Bono. Bono-Bono-Bono. Were we to take a beach stroll and encounter a sperm whale fondling itself, we'd "run-away-run-away," and if it were to "follow" we'd call security and have you tazed.

Sadly, after lo these many years, you Still Haven't Found What You're Looking For; because unless what you're looking for is ball sweat, crab lice or jock itch, you're unlikely to find it down the front of your Target Big-n-Tall board trunks.

The thing is, anyone with a penis knows that several times daily it becomes necessary to do a little nad-juggling. Things get twisted, itchy, mushed, discombobulated and outa-whack; and sometimes the only remedy is a full frontal crotchular expedition. But one does not go testicle wrangling on a public beach in full view of the paps. Jesus, Mary and Jehoshaphat! Have we learned nothing from Simon Le Bon?

In the name of love, Mr. Vox, un-hand mini-Bono this instant. Drop the chalupa. Do it now so we can discuss that overly-yeasted loaf of back-fat rising from your shorts and making a break for the border. Do you you hate our ability to see?

You look like (pick one):

Gene Hackman IS James Lipton in an ill-fated bio-pic called "Inside the Actor's Underoos"

You've embarked upon an eeling expedition in lake paunch-ertrain

You're scraping barnacles from the hull of the USS Augustus Gloop

Moby Dick, preparing to brandish his pants-harpoon

Your shorts have been inexplicably annexed by Pillsbury to manufacture pop-n-fresh biscuit dough

Ten score and whatever years ago, a bunch of negro boys started a-buildin' this here capitol thingy. But it ain't like they done it out of the goodness of their tap-dancin' hearts. You reckon they was a-hoistin' these stones and spit-polishing these banisters outa patriotism? No, ma'am! The folks who owned 'em practically had to use a bullwhip to get 'em to lift a damn finger.

Today, pastey good ol' boys been a-circle-jerkin in this here buildin' for two hundred some-odd years. Slaving away, sometimes for minutes a day, passin laws that gave you Afromericans yer own schools, drinkin' fountains and neighborhoods! And I'm a-sposed to say "thank you?"

Leave it to them hippy Demon-crats to pass a bill that says "oh, yeah...thanks for that." Why, iff'n them negros wasn't buildin' the Capitol they'd a-been a-shim-shammin' in the minstrel shows and smokin the crack and makin oreo babies with our virtuous lil' darlins while caterwaulin' their nasty cop-killing rap-hop music.

Look a-here, you people still got jobs workin' here, sweepin the halls and scrubbin the terlits! Shoot, this here capitol been keepin' y'all off the welfare so's you can take home a generous minimum wage paycheck (which I keep a-votin' not to increase, just so's y'all don't get to uppity)! Heck, how's about we pass a law that says "Yer Welcome?"

But nosiree-bob, them free-luvin partisan commie faggits lubed up this bill with K-Y and shoved it thru congress by a narrow margin of 399 to 1.

Okay so I was the "1," but that just goes to show that Congriss is a bunch of pinko Aunt Jemima golliwogs who spend their days rusty trombonin' Al Sharpton and a-jerkin' and a-twitchin' to Lucifer's ooga-booga music (e.g., Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis, Fiddy). I think it's cause that uppity fat gal on the teevee with the sweet rack is fillin America's noggin' with fool notions about equality (Oprah needs to shut her fat yap and build her own damn capitol, that's what).

But y'all gots to stop a-callin me a racist. Sure, one time I done compared immigrants to cattle, but that's just 'cause they always lolly-gaggin out in the field acting all lazy. But I loves me the coloreds. I reckon they got their own feelins and they think real thoughts jus' like normal folks. Why just the other day when that cute little fella polished my tassled wing-tips with a sho-nuff smile and a polite "yassum" attitude, I toss that boy a quarter. Sure, he prolly gonna go spend it on the devil-reefer. But I'm a Christian.

I don't judge.

Steve King sez: "I vote for saying 'thank you' for subscribing to this blog's feed."

May 27, 2009

Our favorite telekinetic prom queen/blood soaked mass murderess, Carrie White, has emerged from her grave to shop around a whimsical how-to book. Released in time for prom season, we are thrilled to provide an excerpt below.

Hi! My name is Carrie White. If you're like me, the word "prom" conjures visions of tuxedo-clad jocks barfing out of the moon roofs of rented limos, and be-gowned cheerleaders having their ankles pushed behind their ears in the back of Ford Tauruses. Other sentimental images: mayhem, electrocutions, karo syrup with red food coloring. It's a momentous night in a gal's life, and it's important to get everything just right. Don't believe me? Ask the Bates High School class of 1976, may they rest in peace.

I remember when Tommy Ross asked me to the prom. I thought I'd swoon! And when my sweet mother (may she rest in peace) offered her customary sage advice, "they're all going to laugh at you," I knew it was destined to be an unforgettable affair. With that in mind, what follows are examples of ways in which unfortunate fashion choices can make an otherwise joyous event go awry (though not as awry as a prom can go, given the right cocktail of pig blood, demon-possessed fire hoses and bisected gym teachers).

When a guy and a gal get ready for the big night, it's important to be coordinated. For instance, I knew Tommy Ross (may he rest in peace) was going to wear a dreamy powder blue tux, and that's why I sewed my own dress out of pink satin, ignoring my dear mother's thoughtful observation that it lasciviously displayed my budding sin pillows.

However, if it's really important to you and your beau to be perfectly matched, it's a mistake to fashion our outfits from the paper in which the local butcher wrapped your lamb shank.

It makes you look as if those mean pranksters Chris and Billy (may they rest in peace) are up to their old shenanigans, but instead of dumping pork blood on your noggins they opted for a far more hilarious bucket of cow poop. A little constructive criticism? You look douche-y and retarded.

Next, as every gal knows it's nice to have a hobby. However, if your hobby is knitting ball gowns with your feet, I suggest avoiding the pink, maroon, violet, fuscia, orange and blood red color combination. Yet I do love how pleased you seem to be with the results. You certainly are a talented knitter.

Furthermore, I admire how, faced with a dateless prom, you knitted yourself a life-sized tuxedoed sock monkey to escort you to the festivities. Next, I might suggest knitting yourself a sense of taste and crocheting some self esteem.

Moving on, when a gal sits down at her singer sewing machine to decide what kinda matching outfits she's going to make for herself and Dennis Rodman's effeminate autistic nephew, it's best not to use the drapes from Fook Mi's Chinese Take Out. Especially if your outfits look like pairs skating costumes for the Ghetto Ice Capades.

Because when the Prom Queen gets a bucket of KFC dumped on her noggin and she starts to go mental, the evening will end up best for you if you're not already trapped in a net.

There's something about this next prom gown. I can't put my finger in it. I mean "on" it. What could it be? Certainly it's not because it looks like an enormous sin cave. I'm sure it won't put any randy thoughts into Tommy Ross' curly blond noggin when you press your gargantuan satin hoo-hoo against his excitable adolescent underpants serpent as you spin giddily amongst the tin foil stars.

The only upside to your obscene tribute to Georgia O'Keefe is when prom is over, after your date barfs up his last ten shots of Jagermeister and coaxes you into the back seat of his daddy's Hummer, he might mistake your dress for home plate, resulting in a trip to the dry cleaners instead of the abortionist. That's the sort of smarts a gal needs, if she doesn't want to show up at next year's prom looking like this:

While it must be quite convenient for a gal to carry her prom date in her womb, we suspect this tasteful young woman forgot that her beau needs to be dressed too.

But why so glum? Cheer up, girlfriend! You're drinking for two tonight! And the naughty boys who came stag will have very little doubt in their minds whether you're willing to ride their lil' ponies in the back of a mustang.

However, a word of warning to the Chris Hargensens and Billy Nolans who might be lurking back stage waiting to dump a bucket of babyback ribs on her Tina Turner Thunderdome weave. Remember how crabby I got? And that was after only one visit from Aunt Flo. Yakeisha here has a lot more hormones pumping through her veins. And once you pull the chord, she's likely to do to your gymnasium what the Ayatollah wants to do to Tel Aviv.

Party hardy! Wooo!

Love,Carrie White

P.S. When we saw this trailer on YouTube, we thought our gay lil' head would explode. "Be Italian" indeed. This is homo catnip.

May 19, 2009

After Obama's ascension inauguration, as the fruited plain basked in the morning dew, the chorus rang from sea to shining sea: At last, the most retarded tub of paste ever to hijack our national discourse and lower our collective IQ had been consigned to the compost heap of history, or so we thought. We speak, of course, of Joe the Plumber.

To the Republicans, Mr. Sam Wurzelbacher (whose name isn't Joe and who isn't a plumber) represented something genuine; the typical American (if typical Americans had publicists). To the rest of us, he simply fit the central casting mold of a hypocritical beer swilling bigot (you know, the kinda galoot Obama infamously called "bitter," causing much bitterness amongst bitter galoots). But someone forgot to tell him that his fifteen minutes expired about six months ago, because he keeps resurfacing like anal warts.

He's managed to write a book (we KNOW!) imaginatively titled "Fighting for the American Dream" (ranked 667,697 on Amazon, impressively wedged betwixt the stunning potboiler "Peterson's Guide to Urban Wildlife" and R.C. Bell's thrilling page-turner "Discovering Old Board Games"). By contrast, Mr. Socialism himself, President Obama wrote a lil' tome called "Dreams From My Father" which was published five years ago and is ranked at 145. Note to Mr. Wurzelbacher: if fighting for the American Dream means cashing in on celebrity, Obama is far more capitalist than thou, and Paris Hilton seems to be the truer American. Oops.

Anywho, whilst shilling his cute little book on the globally revered media outlets Christianity Today and WTVG in dazzling Toledo, our bitter plumber casually tossed off the witty remark that although he has "gay friends" he doesn't want them "anywhere near his children." He also doth protest that "Men kissing each other…it throws me off. It’s not something I want around my family." Stick a pin in that for a sec, m'kay?

Meanwhile, on the VERY SAME DAY Mr. Wurzelbacher shared these insights, researchers at a French university released the results of a little experiment. Dozens of straight-identified male students consented to have instruments attached to their shame hoses while they were shown gay porno. The subjects who were determined to be homophobic (based on their answers to a survey), were shown to have significant, er, activity "down there" whilst the others who expressed no discomfort toward the Ida Lupino fan club showed little to no change in their wee donny doblin's girth/rigidity. Afterward, the same group of self identified homophobes denied any arousal whatsoever. Watch this video about the experiment, it's highly entertaining.

Ergo, no other conclusion can be reached: the reason the thought of two men kissing "throws off" Joe the Plumber is clear. It's been clinically proven that he fantasizes about frolicking with Ricky Martin in a jacuzzi, and is statistically predisposed to long for Dwayne Johnson's pants-scud to be rammed up his ass-silo.

It's scientific. Right Joe?

Joe sez: "my subscription to this blog's feed keeps my mind off of my sinful inclination to wear James Dobson's virile man ass as a beret."